


waste lose save spend kill make find (keep)

by sybilius



Series: Talking won't save you [7]
Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: Angel Eyes bullshit, Anxiety, Bathing, Cooking, Coping, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Hunters & Hunting, Insomnia, M/M, Medication, Northern aesthetic, angel eyes' decent soup, but he too is Trying in this, gentle things, good ending, manly men crying, supportive friends, the world needs more of those stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 12:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15025010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: After five years in the North, Blondie feels time creeping up, numbering his days till inevitable disaster.It's nothing and everything but a feeling.





	waste lose save spend kill make find (keep)

**Author's Note:**

> *walks shyly on to the stage again*
> 
> Hi everyone. Another Blondeyes story, and another story I've written about depression. For a long time now I've thought pretty seriously about writing about the uglier realities of depression-- but I usually came to the conclusion that such a fic would ultimately be boring. The truth is that getting through depression is boring and tiring, sometimes. That's a story that's harder to take. 
> 
> I've written more than a few depression or suicidal ideation stories too where characters in a supporting role are just that-- supportive, understanding, and empathetic. But of course, sometimes when depression hits the people closest might be the least well equipped to support you. In that case the next best thing is someone who at least knows they're going to be shite at it -- and tries their best to find someone to learn from, listen, and not pass too much judgment in the meantime. 
> 
> Anyways the ship that finally folded to these themes was Blondeyes because the world needs more icons of masculinity having a good depression cry. 
> 
> Maybe I should say sorry I keep writing these? *throws up hands in exasperation*
> 
> Thanks to Ari for the title <>

The North, paradoxically, has both the sharpest and the blurriest sense of time. The sharpness comes in the small moments, survival the difference in seconds between shooting a caribou and missing it. Blondie turns over in his bed, staring at the summer light from the window. Unchanged from noon to midnight at this time of year.

The days are more of a blur.

He stifles a yawn, the tension in his jaw tight as stitches, returning his arm overtop of the figure beside him. Angel shifts underneath him, probably long asleep. Blondie can't remember the last time he'd had a full night of sleep. No, the only thing he's sure of in time is that it's been five years now since he and Angel had come to Tweechik.

 _Five years, hell. How did it go by so fast?_ Five years of hunting with Sue and Peter, five years of Castellan's strange medical experiments, five years of ice, bone chill, and something like partnership with Angel. Five years of keeping the town alive not just after one winter, but four of them.

 _How the hell is it going to stay that way?_ After this long he'd have thought it would be second nature. But something was creeping up in the back of his mind, hairs raised on his neck every time they went to hunt. There were so many things that could go wrong out there.

His navigation could get them stuck in a storm, all it would take was some scarce hunting for a week, they could starve or freeze on the doorstep of home. Or in the wilds, a misfired shot, frostbite-- or hell, what makes him believe he wouldn't just shoot someone? He'd done it before, not so long --

“You awake again?” Angel’s voice cuts through his thoughts. Blondie swallows, not knowing what to say.

“Yeah.”

Angel turns his head to face Blondie, eyes curious rather than accusing, “Been four days you've been doing that.”

“So?” there's more of a snap than Blondie intended. _Just another thing I didn't think of that could go wrong._ He turns on to his back.

Angel rolls over, propping himself up on one arm. He presses a finger to the shadows underneath Blondie's right eye, none too gentle, “Looks like hell. What's going on?”

“Can't sleep.”

“That doesn't explain shit,” his voice is cool, without cruelty. _Don't know how to tell him I'm afraid. He didn't want me to be afraid, and we had five years without that._ Blondie blinks slowly at the labyrinth of bones. Same view for the past four, almost five years now. _How long can I keep that?_

“What's going on?”

“I don't know.”

“Bullshit,” Angel says softly. Blondie closes his eyes, rolls over so that his back is facing Angel.

“Go to sleep, Angel,” he half expects Angel to grab him, demand answers, maybe even hurt him. _Maybe I want that._ But Angel just shifts on to his side, his breaths slowing to sleep after what could be half an hour. It's a little comforting, at least.

_He didn't want the answer to that anyways._

* * *

 

Blondie hears Angel leave in the morning, without making coffee nor any of their usual barbed greetings. So he has already made at least one misstep. He pushes himself out of bed with a groan, rubs the soreness from his leather eyelids.

 _Least there's still water in the pot._ Without snow on the ground, Blondie doesn't think he’s up for walking out of town to fill up at the stream. He fumbles with the count of the coffee scoops, which might have wasted a few. At least it's summer.

The coffee is oddly tasteless. So maybe he hasn't put enough scoops in after all.

It’s the chuu k’oh day, which means that the town is as busy as it gets, despite the drip of rain. These came every five days in summer, when food was easier to come by. The hunters would stay in and Sue would direct them in smaller jobs to keep Tweechik standing. Blondie walks slowly through the muddy summer streets, his bones oddly sore. Nothing that would keep him from working, though.

Pushing through the heavy wood of the door, Blondie peers in to Castellan's practice, finding it empty. _So someone hurt, or else her and Angel are out doing experiments_ . Blondie tries to remember whether Angel mentioned it the night before. Sue is in the kitchen, rather than by the door with her boots laced and her light coat buttoned. She's standing over the stove, stewing up some moss to drink. _Not like her to be running late._ The thought comes a moment after he's stared at her.

“What’s getting done today?”

“You do look like hell,” Sue purses her lips and offers him the moss drink. This isn't like her. She pauses.

“Angel Eyes said you haven't been sleeping.”

He swallows, fingers tightening around the handle. “Yeah.”

She gestures to the table, businesslike but insistent,  “It's like I said before, if you want to talk. Talk.”

Blondie takes a sip of the steaming mug, not sitting down. He glances around the familiar room, the chipped sink and wood counter. His thoughts move slowly. _What would it change to tell her? It's still going to happen--_

“For what it's worth, I'd like it if you did,” she sits herself, taking a drink as well. He exhales, too tired to deflect the question. _Not like she would let me._

“It's been five years, Sue,” he can feel the way the thought puts a burst of nervous energy in him. _It's fine. It is what it is. Hell, maybe this will get it over with._

“Yeah? I remember celebrating that a month ago.”

“Five years and nothing's happened.”

“Do you want something to happen? Things to be different here?” she's quiet when she asks it, but Blondie knows he's said the wrong thing.

“No, no hell no. If I could I'd keep it like this for another ten, hell. I'm just. God above, it's not going to stay like this.”

She stands up slowly, studying him very carefully. It's hard to look her in the eye. “Why not?”

He taps his fingers on the outside of the warm cup, setting it down. His thoughts are suddenly moving blisteringly fast. _Why did Angel tell her? What, is he going to ask her later? Ask me? Does he already know? Does she? Are they going to take me off hunting? Will the town survive?_

His mind spins around the word survive, some sort of memory.

“I'm going to do something, and it's all going to go to hell. I know it,” he's said it. There's something terribly blank and impersonal about it, it's not what he expected. Even the fatigue goes out of him. Sue furrows her brow, then her gaze softens.

“Oh Blondie.”

She touches his shoulder first, slowly, then when he doesn't react, she pulls him into a tight hug. Blondie breathes in, then his face is wet, tears rolling down his face. He hasn't cried in years. _The hell is happening to me?_

“Blondie, I swear to you that's not going to happen.”

 _You don't know that. You don't know that about me._ He wants to say that but his breath is coming out as a slight sob. Strange.

“Have you been thinking this for what, a month? Longer?”

He manages to nod. _Feels like longer than a month. Maybe since the end of winter._ Blondie doesn't have a good idea of when that was. His eyes fall on the damp drip on the window glass. He reminds himself it is summer. He registers Sue squeezing him, the slight desire for this to continue.

“Okay. It's okay,” she murmurs gently. Blondie doesn't believe much of that but she's not wrong-- right now.

“Um,” he swallows, his voice a little ragged. Sue doesn't let go of him. _That's. That's fine._

“So. Um. What needs to be done?”

“What I need you to do is go see Castellan. She’ll look you over and give you something so you can sleep,” she squeezes him once before letting go, “Then we'll see.”

Blondie is about to protest that Castellan isn't even there when he hears the door open and quickly brushes off his face, cheeks burning. _That, I could have done without feeling._

Sue breaks off to the other room, saying a few things in hushed tones to Castellan. Blondie sits down, staring at his drink. _Hell. Why the hell did I think telling her would be the end of it?_ He resists the urge to drop his head to the table. He's lost enough dignity as it is. 

He forces the rest of the drink down gulp by gulp while they talk. He can’t say how long it takes -- time has taken on that quality it usually only takes on in the early morning. But by the time Castellan comes in to the room, he’s able to stand easily, and he’s relatively confident he looks like himself. In Castellan’s hand is a small root, with a handful of tiny pale flowers on it. Blondie remembers it from the small glass case in which she coaxes a handful of seeds to grow in the summer.

He goes to stand, following her wordlessly into her room. She rinses the root in the pot of water, then takes a knife to slice it into thin disks. The smell is slightly revolting -- _like something died and the roots grew through it._

Blondie sits on the bed in the corner when she gestures there.

“This is a herb my master used to grow-- it should induce sleep within half an hour. These will also help,” she takes out a handful of dried buds, puts them in a leather pouch with the roots “There’s a possibility you may have vivid dreams. Soften it in water, with coffee or Sue’s scurvy prevention if you must.”

“Alright,” he takes the small pouch mechanically, standing to go.

“Sit down, I should examine you,”

“I'm not hurt,” Blondie mumbles. Castellan ignores him, checking his heartbeat with a stethoscope.

“No other symptoms of sickness?” she peers at his eyes. Somehow this is easier, at least, than Sue’s questions. He shakes his head, opens his mouth obediently for her to take a look at his throat.

“Mm, yes, nothing there,” she rummages in a drawer, passing him a small pinecone, “Toss this between your hands.”

He tosses it once slowly, catches it.

“Again.”

This time, and the next time, it’s a little harder. Blondie bites at the inside of his mouth, almost fumbling it on the last toss.

“Your reflexes are shot. You should go home. Take the herb and rest.”

Blondie is surprised at how much it hurts to hear that. He glances out the window, “I want to be out there, it doesn’t have to be hard work--” the protest dies in his throat, knowing how small it sounds. _Better off when she was doing the talking_.

She stares at him a moment, opening her mouth, then shaking her head, “It won't be forever.”

 

* * *

 

The pouch feels almost heavy in Blondie’s wool jacket as he returns home. He frowns at the brightness of the windows against the wood. Of course, in the summer it's always bright, but the evening seems dimmer somehow. Being home at this hour feels wrong, or at least feels like he should feel far sicker than he did.

 _I mean, is that it? Am I sick?_ He’s felt worse before, he’s pretty sure. But he usually trusts Castellan’s advice. He sets the pouch on the counter absently, deciding to try for sleep first without it. The blanket is heavy weight on his shoulders, and the bed feels too cold with only one person in it.

Blondie tries. He closes his eyes, tosses and turns for what feels like hours. But it only sets the creep of unease, inactivity deeper into his bones. And the room is still cold. _Should start a fire. Maybe chop some wood. Maybe that will get me tired enough to sleep._

He makes it through the better part of a tree they felled a few days earlier. Though the work gets the sweat rolling on his brow and has some comforting familiarity in it, it does little to settle the nervous energy in his bones. Once the hearth in the main kitchen is roaring slightly, he feels a twinge in his stomach. He glances towards the window. Still the same sun, though it seems to have dimmed slightly.

_Angel should be home soon. Get something on the stove then._

There’s a bundle of rabbit and porcupine in the cellar beneath the floor. It isn’t much, and Angel can usually cook up something better. _But it is something._ The meat is just starting to smell ready when he hears Angel’s boots scraping in the muddy path up to their house.

“Thought you were getting some rest,” Angel shucks off his coat, the house being probably too warm by now. Blondie twitches his shoulders in something like a shrug.

“Didn’t really eat much today,” it’s a late realization. He spoons the meat into a few bowls, sitting down across from Angel. It’s filling at least, enough to distract from the fact that Angel is saying very little. _Not like we always talk after the day’s work but. I guess he’s still angry._

Angel still finishes his food first, the last few bites somehow unappetizing to Blondie. Blondie watches him stride over to the stove, wondering what he could say or ask to get Angel to act normally again. Angel picks up the pouch lying on the countertop.

“This what Castellan gave you? The roots?” Angel gives it a quick sniff and grimaces.

“Yeah.” Blondie wonders a beat later how he knew about the plants. _They would have talked._

“Weren’t you supposed to take it to sleep?”

“I guess I just -- I didn’t.”

Angel clenches and unclenches his fist, opening his mouth and then biting whatever words he had down. Blondie looks away. _God above, I couldn’t have at least done that?_

“Castellan said it needed to be taken like tea. I’m going -- “ he pauses, swallowing, “Do you want me to put the water on?”

Blondie blinks, processing the question -- _that was a question?_ “Yes, uh. Yeah, to sleep tonight.”

“Mmm,” Angel has busied himself with filling the tin kettle from the bucket in the corner.

“Thanks,” Blondie adds, feeling even more off balance.

“Mhm.”

Blondie keeps his head down till the kettle screeches, takes the steaming cup without comment. He takes a sip, grimacing slightly at the smell and the bitter taste. His mouth feels like it’s drying from the liquid itself.

“Tastes bad?” Angel ventures quietly.

“Mhm,” Blondie mumbles, letting Angel slip the cup out of his hand, sniff at it curiously. Angel takes the tiniest of sips and coughs loudly.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say Castellan was trying to poison you. Or both of us,” Angel passes it back to Blondie, and Blondie feels the ghost of a smile turn up his lips. He forces the rest of the liquid down in a silence that feels just a tiny bit less heavy. Then, bracing himself against the table, he moves over to the bucket to rinse out the cup and bowl. Angel tries to intercept him, shaking his head and reaching for the dishes. _I’m fine._

“I got it,” Blondie snaps, but he’s already stumbled slightly, and then the tin cup slips from their grasp. The metallic clunk registers like an accusation in Blondie’s ears. Then Angel’s arms, gripping him fast.

Angel mumbles something that might be ‘just leave it’, moving them both towards the bedroom. Blondie doesn’t look at him, focusing on unlacing the rawhide of his boots. _Keep it together._ He feels off balance in a way that’s frighteningly similar to the way he felt with Sue this morning. _Not going to go there. Not with him._

“Guess that stuff acts fast,” Blondie says after a moment. _That’s bullshit too. And he probably knows it._

“Yeah. Lie down,” Angel almost ends it like a question. Blondie doesn’t argue, shuffling over onto his side. Angel’s hand rests tentatively on his shoulder. _Is he going to sleep too?_ Blondie might not know the time, but he knows it’s early. Still, breathing into the touch is somehow soothing, and he can’t help the slight grunt of displeasure when Angel slips out of bed.

“Relax, idiot,” Angel’s voice is careful but fond, “Just going to read a book.”

“Mm,” Blondie’s lips are starting to get heavy. He has just enough in him to wonder what Angel is reading before the herb does start to fill his thoughts with a strange mist.

In his last few moments between wandering the snow-covered path between sleeping and waking Angel might have asked a question -- but Blondie falls asleep wondering if he imagined it.

* * *

“Blondie. Blondie.”

Blondie tries to force his eyes open. It’s bright. Angel Eyes is studying him curiously, his gaze sharp and gorgeous in the sunlight. Blondie swallows a peculiar hailstorm of emotions. His limbs feel like they’re working strangely. _Like that time I got frostbite, almost_.

_Bad thing to remember._

“Morning. Might not be four days sleep, but you got a start,” Angel taps on the wooden side table with his right hand. Blondie stares at the missing part of his finger.  

“Mmm.”

“You gonna get up and have some of the coffee?”

Blondie blinks his eyes, his limbs still heavy and nonresponsive. Every inch of his muscle is aching to _go back to sleep_ and yet, _I have slept, longer than I have in years. I should be able to get up._

_I should be able to get up._

“Mmm,” even finding the words is a bit of an effort, “I don’t-- I can’t.”

“You...can’t,” Angel says the words like he’s testing them, distantly, “That stuff that Castellan gave you -- still wearing off?”

“Maybe,” the shame is thick and dull in Blondie’s throat. _That’s bullshit, I know. It’s just me. I just can’t._

“Stay where you are then. I’m going to get her.”

“Mm,” Blondie is almost glad, almost hurts to see him go. His eyes flicker shut without that effort. _I should stay awake. At least long enough for Castellan to see what’s wrong. I have to..._

When his eyes open again, though time might be strange, he knows it’s been many hours since that thought. He flexes his fingers. At the very least, sitting up doesn’t seem unthinkable. _Smells good._ He checks the brightness at the window. It seems like it could be evening.

He shuffles out of bed, footsteps in the kitchen. _Did Sue come by to make something?_

“You're up,” Angel Eyes, silhouetted in the door.

“Yeah,” Blondie blinks -- the door in the main room must be open. Feels airy, almost warm breeze.

“Castellan had some luck with the carrots so-- I've got something like soup if you want.”

“Yeah,” he stretches out the slight ache in his bones, and goes outside to relieve himself. The sun is lower by fractions of an inch since a few days ago in the sky. There’s almost a green to the rest of Tweechik, things are blossoming as far as they can up here in spite of him. Without him.  

Blondie is still tired.

He forces a grimace at Angel when he comes back in, lips working against the rough hair on his cheeks. Angel simply licks his lips, sets two bowls on the table without a word.

The soup is rich and fragrant, salted and dried caribou, fresh rabbit, the rare root vegetable and earthen herb. The spoonful tastes like the first real thing Blondie has eaten in days. Blondie glances up at Angel, picking spoons at the soup he made, stealing glances at Blondie. _Making sure I'm eating._

 _Oh god above._ He's crying again.

Then Angel is staring, transfixed, watching his goddawful weakness as if he were a drowning bug, wings twitching and helplessly choked with water, nothing to be done for it. The shame rips through Blondie’s throat in a sob he manages to turn into a cough. Angel turns away as if stung.

“It’s good soup,” he manages after brushing the tears from the rough stubble on his cheeks.

“Mhm,” Angel finishes his soup, stands up from the table with jerky movements.

“Angel, I --”

“Just. Eat the goddamn soup,” Angel straightens and walks away with hands clenched. Blondie has just enough sleep in him now to know that Angel is terrified, rather than angry. It doesn’t make him feel better.

After he finishes his soup, he finds Angel Eyes in the bedroom, staring out the window. _Like he's trapped._

Blondie swallows, “If you want to go--”

“Don't be stupid. Unless you want me --”

“God no,” Blondie grips his hand instinctively, squeezing tight before he can pull away, which might be a mistake, “Thanks for the soup I -- I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop being afraid, I wanted to, I.”

“Blondie.”

 _Right, being stupid again_ . Blondie goes to pull his hand away, but Angel digs his nails in. _Feels good._

“No, I mean. You're rambling.” Angel is looking at him now, studying him. _How much did he know about this -- before._

“Did Sue tell you I--”

“She told me not to push,” he grimaces, reaching for Blondie's cheek and settling on his neck, just like always, “Tried not to.”

“You didn't do anything wrong, I’m just. Afraid. For no reason, I guess. You know, I thought it meant something, that everything was going to go to hell and it'd be on me,” Blondie sighs all the way down to his chest. _Would it have been easier if I was right?_

“You give yourself too much credit,” Angel’s fingernail slips behind his jaw, the slight jolt of pain reminding him there’s still a pulse there.

“I am sorry. That I’m afraid. Again,” Blondie lowers his eyes miserably. Angel slaps his face lightly.

“Being stupid again,” it's gentle, almost an apology in itself.

“I know you didn't want that,” Blondie's eyes linger on the scar, just visible at the end of his open shirt.

“I didn't but-- that was different,” Angel drags Blondie's hand to the scar, like he has done many times before. He frowns thoughtfully, almost sadly, "Perhaps not, _abyssus abyssum invocat._ It all runs together. ”  

Blondie lets his fingers skip over the surface, trying to remember how to enjoy the feeling of the texture, “You can't make it through that again.”

“No, not that and -- I know it wouldn’t do shit about this,” Angel purses his lips, reminding Blondie sharply of another time they'd talked about the scar, “But hell, this. This mark doesn't mean you're gonna live without fear, that you should have mastered it. No. Now I think of it as meaning I’m damned to live with you, come one hell or another.”

“Or one calling the other?”

Angel shakes his head, curling his hand next to Blondie's face, “Knew you were in there somewhere.”

Blondie kisses him then-- clumsy, careful, with enough bite that he won't shy away from it. He pulls away from Angel after a moment, wishing he wanted a fuck, or anything at all really. _Still. Leastaways I know he's still going to be there tomorrow._ Blondie repeats that to himself, gripping Angel’s arm. He tries to believe it. It's not as hard as it could be.

Blondie glances outside, “Time is it?”

“Getting to night. You want to sleep?”

“Maybe. Stupid, isn't it?”

Angel shrugs, “Four days is a long time. Besides. I'm tired too.”

Blondie smiles without having to force it, “Let's just sleep, then.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning Angel’s shifting out of bed wakes Blondie around the same time. _Still tired but -- tired of being asleep too._ And Blondie knows Sue could use the help for the day's hunt, if he could today. So he gulps back the scalding heat of Angel’s bitter coffee and laces up his boots for the day's work.

“You ready?” Angel asks after they've left, as if he'd just thought of it.

“Yeah,” Blondie thinks he is. _Good enough._

Sue smiles wide when she sees him, waving at Angel. She sizes him up and Blondie grimaces, anticipating some kind of questions. But she just passes him one of the hunting guns and a day pack.

“We're going a few miles out, but should be back before evening. Might even be warm today.”

“Hoping to nab a curious deer out for a snack,” Peter chirps, “Good to have you back.”

“Yeah,” Blondie can't manage a smile but he does nod gratefully at Sue.

The day isn't easy work, worry creeping back into Blondie's bones in the silence of waiting, watching in the forest. But time does pass quickly enough, and by the end it's his eyes that spot the shy doe in the distance, Peter’s shot that takes her down. _So. Another day that the town eats and survives._

“She's a good kill,” Sue runs a hand along the body, “Might store some of this, too. Good fat on her.”

Stringing the doe up to carry back to Tweechik  took the better part of the afternoon. Blondie and Peter, being closer in height, bore the burden of their kill, Sue taking parts of their packs to lighten the load. By the time the wooden cabins came into sight she was humming a tune Blondie recognized by now. _Something Gwitchin. It's nice._

They leave the meat for Angel and Lars to sort out, heading back to Sue’s to return the packs for another night. The day's warmth has kept, a sharp sunshine for once without a cloud in the sky. _Just my luck I don't feel like this weather._ But Blondie knows enough to be a little grateful it's not making anything worse.

“You want to come by for cards?” Sue lingers at the step to her house, the worn wood uncharacteristically creaky from lack of damp or snow.

“Tomorrow, maybe?” Blondie isn't sure when he asks, but it doesn't sound like a bad idea to have something else to do.

“Yeah, let's do that.”

“Hey, Sue," he squints at her back in the bright sunlight.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks -- I mean, you're always looking out for me, Castellan too. I dunno how you do it.”

She smiles, reaching out to squeeze Blondie's shoulder.

“I don't do it alone.”

* * *

Angel comes in a few hours later with a choice cut of meat and something of the usual caustic wit in recounting the day's events. Once they've put away dinner, they settle into silence that's a little more tightly drawn out than the usual, though.

“So. You alright?” Angel asks the question tightly, like it still sits wrong on his lips. Blondie kisses him for lack of anything to say to that. _Better than I was, better enough, right? Made him deal with my bullshit enough._

Angel bites at his lips with defined interest, pushes Blondie against the wall with just a little more force. _So alright. That's good that he still wants that._

Just as he decides he should just get it over with, Angel Eyes pulls away, studying him. Not with the expected hungry look, but with the same carefulness of the past few days.

“You smell like shit,” he runs a hand over Blondie's now almost-beard thoughtfully.

“You smell like blood,” Blondie quips back, and Angel smiles like the devil, “You think we should go out to the crick?”

“Probably as warm as it's getting,”

“Alright, alright,” he doesn't try to hide his smile.

They travel to the east behind the house in silence with a bucket, some hard soap, and a box of matches. Blondie picks up some wood from the shed to start a fire in a small pit they dug out a few summers ago. The creek is running high. _Must be the melt from the mountains._

The low hanging sun doesn't throw around much warmth, but it is far brighter than it would be in the West at this time of the evening. Angel gets the fire going with practiced ease before unlacing his boots, eyeing the water with wary interest. The wind is almost nice on Blondie’s skin as he strips bare.

“God above,” he swears when he gets his feet in.

“Come on,” Angel shoves him playfully and they both plunge in, the glacial water shocking Blondie’s senses to the core. _Feels good, though._

They hurry back to the fire’s meager warmth, a bucket of water between them to scrub off the worst of the dirt. Angel stands up, all wire and muscle in the evening sunlight. If it wasn't so damn cold Blondie could feel his cock retreating into his skin-- he might actually feel like fucking.

“We have time for that, yeah? All of it,” he says it more to himself than Angel, but Angel looks up from lathering up the soap, tilting his head like he understands.

“Course we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> The herb that Castellan gives him is meant to be St. John's wort and Valerian root. I think I've translated Angel's Latin here before, but that was "hell calls hell". Where depression is involved, often one thing does lead to another. But you know, better in baby steps. 
> 
> Anyways so that's that. Hope you liked it, leave a comment, you know, we’re all still here or whatever.


End file.
